


"This Skeleton Don't Dance"

by Catsitta



Series: Assorted Oneshots [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Bittersweet, Dancetale, Gen, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, References to Undertale Genocide Route, Sans (Undertale) Doesn't Remember Resets, Undertale Monsters on the Surface
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 19:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16069583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsitta/pseuds/Catsitta
Summary: Sans doesn't dance anymore. Frisk can't help but blame herself.Sans & Frisk | Oneshot | Dancetale





	"This Skeleton Don't Dance"

“Papyrus, have you ever seen Sans dance?”

It was closing time at the studio, the last of the stragglers shooed away for the night save for the skeletal latin dance instructor and his tiny teenaged human friend. Papyrus paused as he finished turning off the lights, glancing back at an unusually disquieted Frisk. She stared at her feet, squeaking ratty sneakers, short-brown hair veiling any expression from sight. In that oversized stripped sweater and those faded leggings, she looked far younger than sixteen, and oh so very delicate. Like she would crumble apart in a harsh gust of wind. Papyrus knew better. The ambassador of monsterkind pirouetted her way through the Underground, standing again and again, no matter how many times a missed step left her bruised or even bloodied! 

He propped his hands on his hips. This pitiful look simply wouldn't do. 

“OF COURSE I HAVE, SILLY HUMAN. WHO DO YOU THINK TAUGHT ME? HE MIGHT BE LAZY, BUT HE'S THE SECOND BEST DANCER I KNOW! THE FIRST BEING MYSELF. NEYHEHEH.” Papyrus grinned down at Frisk, who gripped her duffle bag strap tighter. “WHY DO YOU ASK?”

“I haven't...” she began, pausing. “Has he danced since coming aboveground?”

Oh. Papyrus' smile faltered, one palm absently rising to rest on his sternum. It had been two years since they were freed. Despite the trials. The pain. The riots and the hate...Monsterkind made a place for themselves under the sun.. Ebott City a thriving haven. In that time, everyone found new reasons to keep dancing. Except Sans. He was never the most energetic of monsters. His style meandering, slow and debatably lethargic. But it was playful, with complicated step sequences that showed off Sans' incredible grace without requiring him to remove his hands from his pockets. And when they danced together in their youth, their sharply contrasting styles melded into something spontaneous and new, soulsongs in harmony. It had been almost five years since they last danced...and at least three since he saw Sans dance at all, either by himself or with another.

It wasn't healthy.

Dancing was an expression of magic. The way a monster danced and the song their soul sang told much about a monster, from how they approached life to their mental state. Never dancing for a monster was like never sleeping for a human. You could function for a while, but it would kill you in the end. Monsters that didn't...usually fell down. Unable to hold together, magic stifled, stagnant. Sans assured him every day that he was fine, that he just didn't feel comfortable dancing around others right now. That he practiced in private. No matter what Papyrus said or did changed his mind, and the pamphlets for the nice therapist bunny ended up tossed in the trash tornado. Given his low HoPe, the younger brother couldn't help but worry that Sans was lying, and wasn't using his magic at all.

“Pap?” 

Papyrus' eyelights met Frisk's brown gaze. This was the little human that saved them all. Who had the bravery and determination to keep fighting for the monsters when they emerged. Surely, if anyone could convince his brother to dance again, it would be her. He ruffled her hair, “I HAVEN'T SEEN HIM DO SO, NO. BUT! I BET THE MASTERFUL AMBASSADOR COULD PURSUADE A SHOW.” 

He didn't miss the way she flinched. 

Together they locked up the studio and headed for his car. Frisk didn't speak the whole drive to her house, save for a soft thank you when she exited. Toriel stepped onto the porch to usher her adopted daughter in, leaving Papyrus watching from the street, gloved hand gripping the steering wheel perhaps a little tighter than normal.

.x.

It was Saturday afternoon. If she wasn't working on homework, Frisk was usually practicing at the studio, wearing through another pair of pointe shoes. Papyrus and Undyne mere merciless pools of endurance and enthusiasm. Thus it was unusual for her to find herself at the door to the skeleton brothers' apartment. Even more unusual was it that came to said apartment knowing that it was only Sans there alone. The pair stood at either side of the open frame, neither speaking, eye-to-eye. After a moment, Sans stepped to the side, motioning for Frisk to come in, his trademark grin fixed in place. He looked the same as always: blue hoodie, black track pants and sneakers. Posture slumped at the shoulder. Hands tucked into pockets. Headphones resting around his neck, plugged into a player but producing no sound.

“hey kiddo, what brings you around this neck of the woods? playing hooky and finally coming over to the right side of life?” Sans asked, closing the door. He feigned a sniff, “making this ol' lazy bones proud.”

Frisk opened her mouth, but no words came. The elder skeleton looked debatably worse than when he was underground. Back then, he possessed an air of defeat and boredom, like he couldn't summon the effort to care about himself much less anyone else besides his brother. Now, there were dark stains burned at the edges of his eyesockets like bruises, his smile more rickety than careless. He rarely hung out casually at public places by himself. Hood always up, headphones on, shrinking away from both humans and monsters alike. Sans was one of the most well-known monsters Underground, his sense of humor and habit of seemingly being anywhere and everywhere putting his name in many ears. Not many sentries slash hot dog salesmen could say they were on casual speaking terms with royalty. But above...he was a fading flame.

“you look like you got somethin' rattling about in your skull,” Sans said as he leaned against a lumpy green couch. It was the same patched up one the brothers owned in Snowdin, fished out of the dump and restored to a hideous glory. It dominated the cramped living room. Rent in the city wasn't cheap. Sans, despite his reluctance to be outside, generally kept busy. Somehow. Always bringing in enough money from whatever odd jobs he picked up to keep the bills paid. Nothing consistent. Nothing routine. An eyesocket slipped shut, a singular white eyelight tracking Frisk as she joined him.

“I was just thinking—”

“a dangerous task indeed.”

“—that I have danced with all my friends, except you.”

A lapse back into silence. Sans fiddled with the music player tucked in his pocket, “this skeleton don't dance, pal.”

“All monsters dance,” Frisk gripped the edge of the couch, worrying a hole that threatened to spill its stuffing. She refrained from bringing up the resets. Those long ago loops in time where she was its master. Sans was smart. Intuitive. She knew he knew that resets existed. Was aware of their occurrence. His weariness worn from countless resets by Flowey followed up by those made by Frisk. But his exhaustion belied hidden truths. How much did he remember? Some? None? Enough? This happy ending where they were all on the surface was neither the first nor the only result of her fall below. She did not have a good reason why she committed genocide. Frisk could blame Chara, but...it was out of her own concious choice that she dusted that first froggit in the Ruins. No matter if Chara steadied her stance, urged her to stay Determined, Frisk made a choice.

She lied when she said she never danced with Sans. 

But his expression when his soulsong began to play was a memory she hated reliving. It was as if the last piece of himself had broken. He didn't care about getting to the surface, or the fact that she silenced the underground...not after that point. His only goal was to stop her. Their dance a twisted, furious display of raw power and blistering speed. Whoever Sans was before that fight, he was gone.

Frisk blinked through the thought.

This Sans never fought her.

She never broke him.

Right?

“heh. look, i see you mean well, but when i say I don't dance, i mean it. did paps put you up to this?” He wasn't looking at her. “no, no he wouldn't have to. yer good at feeling guilty all your own. whatcha do kid?” 

Frisk was tempted to confess, but knew better. She'd done that in a past timeline. An unsuspecting Sans had her professing her sins while clinging to his hoodie, babbling about how she was sorry for her genocide run, and how his soulsong broke her heart when she heard it. She didn't find mercy in his sockets. Just disappointment and horror. _“why would you tell me that, pal? don't go tellin' me that again if you know what's good for you. let the other sanses think they were always your friend.”_ Before she could ask what he meant, her soul shattered, the last thing she knew before the void swallowed her up being Sans laying a hand on his sternum and the terrifying encounter music starting to play. 

“...I....I think I know why you don't dance anymore.”

“oh?”

“...You don't want anyone to know about your song. It's changed, hasn't it?”

His eyelights guttered out, his full attention now on Frisk, skull facing her with empty sockets, “tiba honest, that's a real big claim you just made.”

Frisk sighed, a shiver running through her as the skeleton instinctively passed judgment. Searching for answers the resets stole. “Did some research. Asked a few questions. Your behavior lines up with what I learned. You're hiding from your loved ones. You obviously don't sleep well despite all your napping. You...” She slid off the couch, unable to find the right words as he flinched back. Sans would never forgive her. But if she could not beg forgiveness, she could try to fix what she broke. 

Slowly, she padded around the couch so that she stood between it and the clunky box tv. There wasn't much room to work with, but she wasn't about to leave without trying. She kicked off her flats; bare toes curled into the carpet. None of this was ideal. Frisk assumed a ready pose and reached out a hand to Sans, an unspoken invitation that he rebuffed, remaining stationary, eye sockets still dark. As a human, she couldn't initiate an encounter with a monster. Even if she could, no doubt he would immediately spare her or even flee before his song started to play. Forcing him into a confrontation would only deepen the rift that deepened between them with every passing day.

Were they friends? He acted as if they were, but she saw him watching as if she were dangerous. Unpredictable. That beloved pet dog that once mauled him thinking he was an intruder and could never quite trust the same. Perhaps she deserved it. She played with their lives. 

Frisk held the offered hand out for a long, silent minute, before lifting both arms above her head. She didn't have a soulsong. She couldn't communicate the same way as him. But she could dance. She could pour her intent into her movements and hope that he could see, hear or feel a drop what she wanted to tell him. _I'm sorry._ She closed her eyes. _Blame me if it means forgiving yourself._ She focused inwards on the music she heard in her head. A bittersweet melody of a lost child and the shattered dreams she struggled to bear. _I'm sorry. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry. Worthless. Guilty. Guilty. Hate me. Just don't give up._

She danced.

Spins and steps sequences, lunges and bends. She dared not jump and more than once she almost kicked the television. Still, she continued. Her arms thrust high above her head, before she leaned back, fingertips brushing the floor as her left leg jutted towards the ceiling. She was tense yet fluid, straightening before falling into the splits. At some point she began to hum. The song in her head was screaming. It was a melancholy mix of seeing the barrier broken and Sans' lethal nihilism. Her heartbeat picked up and her movements became faster, more jagged. Sharp and pronounced, entering the _allegro_ of her unspoken tale. She was on her feet again, twisting and kicking, each strike a near miss. Again. And Again. Repeat. Redux. RESET. 

_I'msorryGuiltyBlame._

She came to a sudden halt, pausing in the middle of her _pas de action_ , eyes pinned on Sans. She continued to hum. Slower. Softer. His eyelights were back. He was watching. Frisk felt herself fill with determination. She completed the steps before striding around the couch, still in time with the music in her head. 

“i told you. i don't dance.” 

She folded her arms behind her back, mimicking how he always had his hands in his pockets, “You're dying, Sans. You're dying because your soulsong changed. I didn't free the monsters just to watch you kill yourself.” He glared at her and in response, Frisk tilted her chin up. She flashed a harsh smile, all teeth and predatory threat. Her heart was a thoroughbred horse running for the Triple Crown title, barely a nose ahead in the final furlong of the race that would land them in the history books or note them in the sidebar as one of the many failures. Sans was looking at her with more anger and spite than he ever did when facing her down in the Judgement Hall. 

It filled her with determination.

“get out.”

“No.”

Intent was everything with monsters. With souls. The same touch could kill as easily as it could mend. Fights were different in their culture. To humans, the word was hostile, always meant harm. To monsters, they were encounters between two individuals in which they communicated. Usually through dance, often paired with conversation. You could flirt or tell a joke just as easily as you could attack. Children fought to refine their magic, to discover how their dances changed with a partner, and how to defend themselves should another's song be too aggressive. At the end, when both parties were satisfied, they agreed to walk away, declaring the other spared as a remnant of an old fashioned formality from war times.

Frisk kept her pose, recalling that when they danced in the past, Sans never spared her. Their fights, their encounters, their dances...ended death. Even when she came to her senses through the dust and LV and spared him. Oh, he would pretend to do so, but in truth, it was merely a lull in his soulsong, ready to return with a vengeance.

She never did ask why he met her in that golden hall every Run.

“heh. fine,” Sans pulled his headphones up and promptly made for the front door. “have fun kiddo.”

If she let him walk out, he'd vanish. So she leapt between him and the exit, resuming that ready stance. Frisk swallowed. Any other monster would have drawn her into an encounter by now. Her posture, intent and behavior all aligned in a manner that had to be driving Sans' instincts nuts. _Fight me. Judge me. Spare me._

Dance with me.

“look, frisk, pal, your concern is great and all,” Sans' shoulders tensed. “but...” Frisk could see him build those mental walls. He was ready to push her out and keep her at an arm's distance. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides. 

“I love you.”

That made the skeleton balk, in his surprise, he almost didn't duck in time to avoid Frisk's leg as she confronted him with a vicious spin. “the hell you doin' kid?!” Sans jerked backwards as that same foot cut a sharp line a hair span from his sternum. 

“I'm dancing,” Frisk said, hands once again behind her back, but this time, she stood near chest-to-chest with him, taking a step forward each time he stepped back. The weight of her confession hung thick on the air. Her love, it was complicated, confusing and confounding. She loved him deeply in that broken yet glued back together way that left her tracing the cracks, appalled by the damage she wrought. She couldn't tell if that love was platonic or romantic. Just knew that he was important. That if he died, it would be her fault. 

Love couldn't repair LOVE.

Tears burned hot trails down her cheeks, her face flushed with a hypocritical indignation, making her smile all the more manic. She deserved her suffering. Saving him was the selfish bid of a child who regretted breaking her toys. But no one knew that. Only her. And she hated it. Hated it. HATED IT.

Hated herself.

Her knees trembled and she choked on a sob that wouldn't stay stifled. As her stubborn ire faltered, Frisk leaned away from Sans, intending on grabbing her bag and leaving. She failed. She failed and there was no one she could blame but herself. As she turned to leave, a bony hand wrapped around her arm, holding her in place.

“what happened kid?” Sans asked, his voice almost too quiet to hear. What happened during those resets? What happened to her? What happened to him? What happened to bring them to this point in their lives? She had no answer to give that was worth giving. She was trapped in that twisted cycle of the truth that needed saying was more harmful than ignorance. 

Frisk grabbed him in a hug and clung like he would vanish the moment she let go.

A soft hum filled her ears. A song. It was Sans. Not his soulsong, nor the desperate melody that rampaged in her heart when she tried to show him her feelings through dance. Just a simple, repetitive melody that reminded her of twinkle, twinkle little star, in that deep, deep voice of his. One hand, the same hand that grabbed her arm, smoothed her back like one might a babe...and he began to sway. 

Papyrus faltered in the doorway when he arrived home to pick up his forgotten lunch. The sight of his brother and Frisk rocking to-and-fro, foot-to-foot in the living room one that lifted his very soul. It couldn't quite be called dancing. 

But it was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> This was just something that has been on my brain for a little while. 
> 
> Cross posted under the same name on fanfiction.net


End file.
